


What Else Could I Do

by Dormchi



Category: Hannibal Extended Universe - Fandom, King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Drinking, Friends to Lovers, Hannibal Holiday Exchange, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Morning After, Winter Solstice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-20 17:17:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13151304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dormchi/pseuds/Dormchi
Summary: “Be still.”He doesn’t know if it’s the low rumble of that voice or knowing who it belongs to that makes Galahad’s face flush hot and his cock leak against his thigh.Tristan. Tristan is sharing his bed.





	What Else Could I Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heyndrix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heyndrix/gifts).



> Here's my gift for Heyndrix on tumblr for the Hannibal Holiday Exchange. :3 I'll tell you what, I live and thrive on writing modern fic, so when I was prompted for Ancient Rome and the like, I had a rough time with it. Combine that with scrapping my original idea T W I C E (why do I hate myself) and trying to find time to finish this over the Christmas holiday, I was a wee bit stressed. But I really enjoyed writing it and stepping out of my comfort zone!
> 
> Happy Holidays! I hope the new year brings lots of wonderful things to everyone!

As Galahad awakens, he is pleasantly surprised to find someone is occupying the bed with him. He feels the warm breath against the back of his neck, the strong arm snaked around his waist and hand pressed to his stomach, and he realizes that his bedmate is undoubtedly a man. It’s not often that he wakes to a hard cock pressed against him, women have proven more inclined to remain until the morning, and he enjoys the sensation of it very much when the opportunity presents itself.

 

Galahad moves ever so slightly beneath the heavy blanket, pushing his ass back and grinding it against the seeking hardness behind him. His lips fall open on a moan, and the man behind him shifts and sighs in his sleep, arm tightening around Galahad’s waist. 

 

Calloused hands, but only on his fingertips, and the pervasive scent of leather and sweat lead Galahad to believe he’s bedded one of the soldiers who deserted when Rome pulled its troops from Briton. A well-endowed one, from what he’s felt pushing against him. He can’t recall much about the night before, which is a shame.

 

Perhaps he can convince his bedmate to stay wrapped up with him for the morning and they can help each other remember.

 

They continue just like that, the soft rocking of hips and quiet sighs, until Galahad is beyond ready and wanting. Still, as pleasant as Galahad finds this gentle teasing, the need to piss outweighs the desire to stay in bed. He knows the room around them will be bitterly cold once he leaves the warmth surrounding him, so he waits as long as possible before slowly starting to free himself.

 

It’s only when he tries to open his eyes that his head throbs mercilessly and feels like it’s been split in two. He presses the heel of his hand against his eye and grits his teeth against the pain, halting entirely in his attempt to escape the bed.

 

“Be still.”

 

Oh.  _ Oh. _

 

He doesn’t know if it’s the low rumble of that voice or knowing who it belongs to that makes Galahad’s face flush hot and his cock leak against his thigh.

 

Tristan. Tristan is sharing his bed.

 

Galahad agonizes for several long moments about whether or not to risk moving and waking the man fully, but he knows his dilemma is pointless when he feels Tristan turn over and rise from the bed. He pulls the blanket over himself and turns to look, afraid but also curious to see if Tristan is fully bared, and Galahad is equal parts relieved and disappointed to see that his braccae remain, stretched obscenely by the hard cock beneath.

 

In his maddening way, Tristan seems completely indifferent to the situation at hand. He searches the room with his eyes and finds his tunic, snatching it up from the chair beside the bed. Galahad holds his breath and realizes that if he says nothing, the man will likely leave without a word of explanation. 

 

“Tristan,” Galahad says, flexing his fingers in the blanket to release his nervous energy. “What happened last night?”

 

“You don’t remember? You did drink rather more than usual.”

 

“No. Did, ah…”

 

A glimpse of amusement passes over Tristan’s features and then he is impassive as always. “We did not.”

 

“Honestly?” Galahad asks.

 

“Honestly.”

 

“Why are you aroused then?” It sounds more like an accusation than Galahad intends it to.

 

“Why are you?” Tristan counters with a knowing look.

 

To Galahad’s complete horror, the hardness between his legs doesn’t soften, but twitches with renewed interest. His mouth is still gaping when Tristan nods and leaves the room, shutting the door gently behind.

 

Galahad puts his head in his hands and barely resists the urge to be sick.  

 

\--

 

When Arthur had suggested a three day celebration for the winter solstice, to commemorate a delicate peace with the Saxons and the birth of Arthur’s first child with Guinevere, the news was well received by knights and soldiers and common folk alike. In the pagan parts of Rome, they still celebrate the winter solstice as Saturnalia, honoring the god Saturn. Arthur is stubbornly Christian, so he chose to call it Winter Solstice Celebration instead. 

 

A long-winded name, surely, but nobody much cared when there was drink and merriment to be had.

 

Galahad remembers that he drank to excess. It’s hardly his fault, when Bors was sitting across the table and encouraging him (shouting at him) to ‘Finish that fucking drink, boy! I have hairs on my ass older than you, that could hold their drink better!’ He couldn’t let Bors think that he couldn’t keep up. It seemed like the only thing that mattered at the time.

 

So he complied, and matched Bors cup for cup until everything became unclear. Now he’s sitting in the courtyard, nursing a cup of wine for breakfast and hoping the cold air will help ease the pain in his head. 

 

He ponders at great length the question that he never thought he would have to ask: how did he end up in bed with Tristan?

 

“What could possibly furrow your brow so severely this early in the morning?” Gawain asks as he enters the courtyard with a plate of food and sits at the table next to Galahad.

 

“I’m trying to remember something.”

 

“If you try any harder, I think your face might remain that way forever,” Gawain teases goodnaturedly, grabbing the jug of wine and pouring himself a cup.

 

Tristan frowns into his cup. “The weather is mild, isn’t it?”

 

“You’re quite unpracticed at changing the subject, so don’t try.”

 

Gawain is too perceptive for Galahad to get away with anything, but he had hoped this once his friend and shield brother might let it go. Apparently he was wrong.

 

Perhaps he can get information from Gawain without revealing the true reason for wanting it.

 

“Gawain,” Galahad pauses to pull his lower lip between his teeth and then releases it, “can you tell me what happened at the celebration last night?”

 

“Certainly you know already. You were there.”

 

He certainly does not. What he knows is that he woke up in bed with the man who antagonizes him at every opportunity and who Galahad wants so badly he dreams frighteningly often about it. Galahad had been the one to find Tristan lying injured after the battle with the Saxons. He had been the one to sit at Tristan’s bedside for weeks while healers worked to keep him alive. Even as fever seemed likely to claim his life, Galahad held out hope, and slowly his opinion of his most irritating shield brother shifted into something else entirely. 

 

Tristan lived and healed, and Galahad from then on fought to keep everything the same between them. For the better part of a year Galahad has kept his growing desire a secret, for fear of rejection. If all he can have with Tristan is aggravation and competition, then he tells himself he can live with that, as long as he doesn’t lose another person so important to him.

 

“I drank quite a bit,” Galahad admits quietly. “Some of the details are lost to me.”

 

“Do you wish for me to retell the night from the beginning or from the moment that I believe you started to become unmanageable?” Gawain asks, tearing apart pieces of cooked poultry with his fingers.

 

Galahad sighs deeply and sets his cup down on the table. “The important parts of the beginning and everything from the moment that you believe I became unmanageable.”

 

“The feast took place and then the celebration was moved to the courtyard. You had two different girls on and off your lap early on and then you left them to join Bors in a drinking competition. I don’t know why you must compete at everything with everyone.” Gawain shakes his head. “It must be exhausting for you.

 

“You were deep in your cups with Bors when you tried to stand and fell over the chair, landing on one of those soldiers that deserted from Rome. The man spilled his wine on his braccae and I did not hear what he said to you, but your response was, ‘Get your cock out and I’ll suck it clean for you. It won’t take me long, since it’s so small and sad.’”

 

Once when Tristan was feeling agreeable, he and Galahad spoke for an hour without incident. Tristan had informed him of his ever present desire to take a horse and ride to a port town, to book passage to a new land and to spend his life traveling alone. At the time Galahad didn’t understand why, but in this moment he understands too well.

 

“Anything else?” Galahad asks, heat spreading across his face and down his neck.

 

“I was worried you might fight the man, and possibly lose with the state you were in, so I asked Tristan to intervene. He was very reasonable about it, despite your constant feud with each other.”

 

Galahad almost wants to request that Gawain stop, because he greatly fears what else he might have done, but if he’s to find out why he woke up in bed with Tristan, he needs to know everything that Gawain can tell him.

 

“What did Tristan do?”

 

“He walked over to the two of you,” Gawain’s mouth splits in a grin, which only serves to twist Galahad’s stomach into knots, “and hit the Roman so hard that he fell over the table quite dramatically. Then he threw you over his shoulder and left. You kicked and shouted until you were out of the courtyard.”

 

“He… threw me over his shoulder?” Galahad blinks into his cup and then at Gawain.

 

“As if you were as light as a woman,” Gawain agrees, finishing his wine and pouring himself more. “I wouldn’t have done it, especially with you flailing your limbs every which way. That’s a good way to injure your back.”

 

If he leaves within the hour and rides until nightfall, he wonders how far he could run from this. He had a chance once to leave, to return to a country that he has little memory of, but he gave it up when Arthur decided it was his purpose in life to unite Briton and his shield brothers seemed to think it wise to assist him. It wasn’t as difficult a decision then as he imagined it would be. Everything he knew for fifteen years is here and fleeting memories of his childhood are far away. Every person he cares about that he knows to be alive is here.

 

Tristan is here and alive.

 

“What is bothering you so?” Gawain asks suddenly, startling Galahad from his thoughts. “That furrow is deeper than ever now.”

 

“I’m just embarrassed to be seen so weak by him of all people,” Galahad replies dismissively, and takes a drink. “I’d rather lose in a fight.”

 

“Did he seem to think less of you when he left your room this morning?”

 

Galahad chokes on a mouthful of wine and coughs violently for it, aggravating his headache enough to make his vision blur for a few moments. When he’s gotten himself slightly under control, he croaks, “What?”

 

Gawain shrugs his shoulders. “I happened to see him leave your room. He seemed distracted.”

 

There haven’t been secrets with Gawain for many years now. The man knows him too well and he’s far too good at observation for Galahad to hide anything from him. With a quick glance around the courtyard to make sure they’re still alone, he resigns himself to telling Gawain everything. Almost everything.

 

“I woke up with Tristan,” Galahad says quietly, clenching his fingers into a fist against the cool wood of the table. “I don’t know how we got to that point.”

 

“Did you ask him?” Galahad’s face must betray how he feels about that question, because Gawain laughs heartily and claps him on the shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I don’t believe he dislikes you. Do you dislike him?”

 

“No,” Galahad shakes his head, “quite the opposite.”

 

“Then go to him and tell him as much.”

 

“At what cost if he doesn’t feel the same?” Galahad asks.

 

“You’ll have to decide that for yourself.”

 

“You’re so helpful.”

 

Gawain smiles and turns his attention back to his food. Galahad can’t shake the feeling that the man knows something more than he’s saying, but he decides to let it go for now.

 

\--

 

Later that night, the second day of celebration begins. It begins with a feast and ends in the courtyard, where more drink flows than the first night. Galahad refrains from drinking more than one cup, which is just enough for him to distract himself.

 

One of the girls he entertained the night before seeks him out and seems disappointed to find Galahad disinterested. In fact, most people avoid him, simply because he’s got his focus singularly on Tristan when he thinks he can get away with it. The man sits far across the courtyard as usual, feeding scraps of raw meat to his hawk. So far, one woman and two men have tried to sit at Tristan’s table and talk to him, but all three have left within moments.

 

When Galahad’s eyes find Gawain, the man is arm wrestling with Bors. He knows he’ll find no help there.

 

Galahad fills his cup once more and rises from the table, strengthening his resolve. He’s going to find out tonight where he stands with Tristan or he’s going to find out what the cost of rejection is. Perhaps both.

 

“May I?” Galahad asks as he approaches, gesturing to the seat opposite Tristan’s. The man’s gaze feels like it burns a hole through him.

 

“What do you think, girl?” Tristan asks his hawk, Sera, the very one who he had set free before the battle with the Saxons. She had flown in through the open door as they were carrying Tristan back, and she wouldn’t allow any man or woman to touch her save for Galahad. Even his relationship with her was tenuous at best and he has the scars on his arms and shoulders to prove it.

 

Sera watches Galahad with dark eyes, perhaps in fact judging his worthiness, and then nips at Tristan’s hand.

 

“Please, sit.”

 

“Does she nip at you to agree?” Galahad asks as he sits.

 

“She nips because she is displeased that I have stopped feeding her,” Tristan replies, his smile terribly fond. “I’m sure you encountered her temper when you fed her.”

 

“We managed somehow until you woke.” Galahad frowns at the memory of bleeding fingers and the temperamental truce that formed between them after that first bloody mess. “She’s not the friendliest animal I’ve ever fed.”

 

“But you fed her nonetheless and for that, I am grateful.”

 

What else could he have done? He knew that the bond between the two was strong and that Tristan only released her because he believed he would die on the battlefield. He was very nearly right.

 

“It was the least I could do,” Galahad says dismissively, taking a drink of wine to calm his nerves.

 

“That wasn’t all you did.”

 

Galahad looks up from his wine to find Tristan’s dark eyes fixed on him, and he finds himself trying to find anything else to look at, just to spare himself the heat blooming in his belly as he remembers.

 

It wasn’t all that he did. He spent days sitting at Tristan’s bedside, watching for any sign that his condition was improving or declining. In the brief moments of lucid fever, he helped Tristan drink and eat. When the night terrors had him thrashing in his sleep to the point of nearly tearing open his wound, Galahad lay at his side and held him still, soothing his fraught mind with stories and meaningless words of comfort.

 

He didn’t know then why he felt so obligated to help Tristan of all people, but he knows now that he desires the man and sees the possibility to love him. The truth of it terrifies him.

 

“Who told you?” Galahad asks quietly. 

 

“Gawain, of course.” Tristan throws the last piece of raw meat on his plate up in the air and Sera catches it with relish. He rubs her head briefly and says, “Only because it’s winter, you understand. Once it’s warm you’re going to have to hunt again, lazy thing.”

 

“I don’t know why I bothered to ask. You know he saw you leaving my room this morning?”

 

“Did he?” Tristan hums and takes a drink of wine. “Perhaps he was checking to make sure I hadn’t sullied your honor.”

 

The very idea makes both men laugh heartily for it. Galahad learned to charm women and men alike from the greatest teacher of all, Lancelot. Lancelot preferred only women in his bed, but the principles of seduction are largely the same with men, with some minor differences that Galahad enjoys quite thoroughly.

 

Tristan has plenty of companionship and attention presented to him, but Galahad has never seen him openly act on it. He may as well be celibate and become a holy man.

 

What an absolute shame that would be, with a cock that size and a body of hard muscle besides.

 

“Gawain told me what happened up until you took me to bed,” Galahad curses his choice of words, but soldiers on. “I don’t remember most of it.”

 

“You want to know what happened after I carried you from the courtyard.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, you struggled like mad the entire way to the staircase that leads up to our quarters. I still have pain in my back,” Tristan says, smiling at Galahad’s fond interjection of, “Old man.”

 

“I carried you to the top of the stairs and set you down. You said you didn’t wish to sleep and we argued briefly. You turned around to go back the way we came and nearly fell down the stairs.”

 

That sounds right. When Galahad is that drunk his coordination leaves him entirely. “I’m grateful you were close enough to catch me.”

 

“I wouldn’t dare let you fall if I could help it,” Tristan says, as if it’s the plainest truth he knows. “After that, I got you into bed without incident, except…”

 

“Except?” Galahad asks, ready to be further embarrassed by his poor decisions. Tristan seems apprehensive, which isn’t a good sign.

 

“You took your clothes off and refused to sleep unless I stayed. It felt much like arguing with a child,” Tristan frowns at the memory, but continues. “I was worried you might attempt to return to the festivities and I would find you in the morning with a broken neck.”

 

Galahad resists the need to bury his head in his hands and stay that way forever. Nothing about his interaction with Tristan had been charming or seductive. Quite the opposite. In his mind, he plots out the horse he’ll take, the provisions he’ll pack, and the direction he’ll go. Maybe he can leave before dawn, to avoid suspicion.

 

Galahad wets his lips with his tongue and asks, “And your tunic?”

 

“Sleeping next to you is akin to sleeping next to a roaring fire,” Tristan replies, chuckling and scratching beneath Sera’s chin. “I sleep naked when we’re not traveling, but my honor demanded that the braccae stay on.”

 

Arousal spreads through his belly, aching like a bruise. He recalls waking up to Tristan’s cock pressed against him, wondering how it would feel skin to skin, and he imagines himself still wet and loose from the night prior. How easy and satisfying it would be to lift his leg and seat himself again while Tristan sleeps, to have the man waken to Galahad’s sighs of pleasure and tight heat surrounding him.

 

Gods, he wants Tristan right now more than anything else in this world.

 

“What are you thinking of that has your face flushed so beautifully red?” Tristan asks.

 

Galahad swallows against the lump in his throat. He’s made his decision, cost or consequences be damned. “Follow me to my room and I’ll show you exactly what I’m thinking of.”

 

It’s Tristan’s turn to flush red then, and Galahad laughs at the absurdity of it all. The two men finish their wine and start their way back to their quarters, Galahad with his heart fluttering nervously in his chest and Tristan a welcome presence at his side. Tristan leaves Sera to preen and digest in his quarters and follows Galahad to his own.

 

As Tristan enters the room and shuts the door behind him, Galahad asks, “Why did you hit the Roman?”

 

“I recognized him. You’ve taken him to your room before.”

 

“You were jealous.”

 

The sour look on Tristan’s face makes Galahad laugh and laugh, until they’re kissing and he can’t recall what had been so funny.


End file.
